Deborah Hale - The Wedding Wager

Why did it frighten her? he wondered—the romantic attentions of a man. Indignation or outrage, he could have understood from a woman of her character. Her anxious agitation puzzled and intrigued him.

As did the lady herself.

Though clearly reluctant to pursue their conversation further, Leonora Freemantle could not resist a parting comment. “In my experience, a simpering miss is precisely what most men do prefer. Now if you will indulge me by turning to page forty-three, Sergeant Archer. Perhaps we can attempt a short translation of Livy.”

Not content to let her have the last word on most men’s taste in women, he muttered, “More fools, them.”

Almost as if he meant it.

Of course he hadn’t meant it.

Leonora reminded herself of the obvious several times as she and Morse struggled over the Latin translation.

Still, part of her felt ridiculously grateful he’d said it—sincere or not.

How many times a day, during her girlhood, had Mother admonished her to get her nose out of a book, lest she never land a husband?

Every time, Leonora had clenched her lips to keep from hurling a disrespectful retort. If her mother’s later husbands were representative of the marriage pool, she would prefer to not fish for one at all.

Little had Mother guessed that she had taken the warning as wise counsel. Everything Mother cautioned to avoid—unflattering clothes, spectacles, too much book-learning, Leonora had taken pains to acquire. For a husband was obviously someone to be eluded at all costs.

All the same, something in her had hungered for the occasional pretty gown, the odd dance at a ball. Even, now and then, the counterfeit flattery of a handsome man.

Thinking of handsome men…

To her dismay, Leonora found herself hovering over Morse’s broad shoulder, prompting him when his translation faltered. The muted scent of his shaving soap and the rich cadence of his voice set her senses reeling.

They made her long to lean closer still, until she succumbed to the invitation of his thick, chestnut hair—running her fingers through it, or nuzzling it with her cheek.

And if she did—how might he react? What might he do in return?

Certainly Morse Archer had betrayed more interest in her than any other man ever had. Even before she’d begun making subtle improvements in her appearance. Apart from his rapidly healing leg injury, he was a healthy, vigorous, virile specimen of manhood. One who’d been denied the company of women for some little time. Yet she had no fear of catching him for a husband.

The notion took Leonora’s breath away.

That was the subject of the wager, after all. He was abetting her quest to avoid marriage. And if they failed, she would have to marry some aristocratic half-wit of Uncle Hugo’s choosing.

With a shudder of distaste, she banished that thought from her mind. Her preoccupation with Morse Archer had a will of its own, however. It would not be banished.

So Leonora reached a compromise with herself.

Uncle Hugo would be gone for a few days. Apart from the servants, she and Morse had Laurelwood to themselves. Perhaps tonight, after dinner, she might invite him to take a glass of port with her in the drawing room. They could put their studies aside and simply talk. About his experiences as a soldier. His plans for the future. Suddenly she was hungry to know everything about him.

Or she might offer to play the pianoforte. She imagined Morse sitting beside her, or leaning over her shoulder to read the words from her sheet music.

An unguarded sigh escaped from between her lips.

“Is something wrong?” Morse turned, then, to look at her.

Leonora knew she should pull herself away. Stand straight. Take a few steps back.

Her body refused to cooperate.

It hung there, bent over Morse, scant inches separating them. They could not have held that position for more than a few seconds, Leonora later reasoned. But in that time, as his eyes locked on hers and the brief space between them fairly shimmered with heat, it took all the self-control of a lifetime to not trespass that tiny distance and press her lips to his.

A tentative tap on the library door boomed like a cannonade in Leonora’s ears.

Seized by a spasm of shame, she wrenched herself away from Morse and called, “Yes. What is it?” in a high, breathless voice.

Dickon pushed the door ajar and peeked in. “Pardon me, miss, but you did give orders I was to knock if you and Sergeant Archer hadn’t come to breakfast by nine.”

Had she said that? Leonora’s thoughts whirled so that she could not swear to it.

“Thank you.” Her words came in little gasps. “We’ll be along in a moment.”

Morse rose from his chair and stretched. The way his muscles bunched under the tight fabric of his breeches made Leonora’s mouth go dry. There were so many things she didn’t know about men. And until this week, she hadn’t cared to find out. Now her freshly whetted curiosity knew no bounds.

“I think you could do with a good plate of breakfast and a strong cup of tea.” Morse cast her a solicitous look. “You don’t seem quite yourself this morning.”

It was all Leonora could do to keep from agreeing vocally.

She wasn’t herself. At least not the self she had shown the world for the past two decades.

Morse Archer’s obvious interest in her, and her curiosity about him, had kindled some long-quiescent ember of whimsy and excitement within her. Suddenly she was most anxious to see where it might take her.

Acting on a daring impulse, she reached for Morse’s arm. “I am feeling a trifle light-headed.” No lie, that. “Will you be so kind as to steady me on our way to breakfast?”

Her request appeared to catch him off guard. “I—don’t see why not,” he sputtered.

“We must make an effort to polish your social graces, Sergeant. The polite reply to a lady would have been, ‘I’d be honored, miss.’”

An embarrassed grin made him look endearingly boyish. “I am honored, Miss Leonora. Happy to be of service.”

She laughed. For the first time in how long? “You’re a quick student when you choose to be, Morse.”

The intimacy of his Christian name was out of her mouth before she realized it. The word felt very much at home on her tongue.

For a wonder, he politely refrained from comment, pulling out her chair from the breakfast table and making sure she was well settled before taking the seat opposite her.

Morse tucked into breakfast with his usual relish. Scarcely a wonder after the poor food he must have suffered during his days as a soldier. For her part, Leonora could not summon up much appetite.

Perhaps the odd sensations she was experiencing were only the symptoms of some malady, after all.

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